Within Shadows
by SnowHelm
Summary: Zevran's pain and regret has put him on this path, little does he know that his actions will lead to the fall of Ferelden. (Warning - Character death)


**Author Note: **This is just something that has been in my head demanding to be written. I would love to get your thoughts so please review.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Dragon Age Origins or any of its characters.

**xXx**

Zevran watched from the shadows; the forest was his ally and he blended into it, one of many skills he had honed over the years. He could disappear at will it seemed; using the darkness as a cloak to adorn, or discard as he saw fit. The moonlight did not alight upon his handsome features if he did not wish it. The hood of the cloak he was wearing covering his blond hair and tattoo that curved at his cheekbone. His markings were easily distinguishable and he did not wish to be recognised until it was too late to matter. His hands never strayed far from his blades, as his eyes never strayed far from the campsite. He had stalked the group for some time; learning their names, fighting styles, their strengths and weaknesses.

He carefully watched his main targets, the only two remaining Wardens in Ferelden. In each battle Zevran had observed; the warrior had defended his fellow Warden, an elven mage, fearful and uncertain in his role. Their alliance was an uneasy one, but Zevran had watched as the warrior's naive charm started to slowly win over the mage. A wicked smile curved his lips, innocence was so unusual in one such as the warrior and something he had thought long about exploiting.

Zevran was no fool; going up against Wardens was no simple task, it required cunning and skill, both of which the assassin had in abundance. Although in truth he had no intention of surviving the battle, though his pride would not allow him to make it easy for them. Mages could be tricky; but he knew if he eliminated the warrior, the rest of the group would be vulnerable.

It had become almost a game to Zevran as he had focused his attention on the warrior; almost hidden in his own shadow on occasion, moving so close he could have reached out to touch him. It was a perverse game of chance that would end abruptly should the warrior turn around. Zevran had become fascinated with his prey; telling himself he needed to know as much as possible, but lingering in the forgotten parts of him was a growing admiration of sorts. His target was powerful; his movements fluid in battle, even if his words were clumsy. He was the shield of his fellows, never hesitating to put himself between them and an enemy. Even those members of the group he distrusted, in battle he ensured their safety as much as he was able. He was a force to be reckoned with and Zevran had a grudging respect for his skill, even if the younger man was a fool.

The assassin had watched as Alistair's joking exterior slipped each night at camp when he was alone on his watch. His shoulders would slump; his head bow, grief, loneliness and guilt bringing a weariness to his features that made him look older than his years. Zevran had crept closer one night to better see what the warrior held in his hand, realising it was the pendant he always wore. The name Duncan was spoken reverently from his lips, tears the warrior refused to shed pooling in his eyes. Zevran had yet to find out who this Duncan was, his target never spoke to the others about him and he suspected it was a lover lost to the Blight.

Zevran failed to take his opportunity to eliminate the warrior when Alistair bathed alone. Mesmerised by his golden muscled body; enchanted as he left the water, drops gleaming on his skin, shining like pearls. The assassin had held his breath as Alistair seemed to look directly at him; Zevran transfixed by the hazel eyes. There had been a soft rustle and Alistair had turned; flushing as Morrigan taunted him about his state of undress, hurrying to be away from the apostate. Zevran saw how the mage looked at him as he left; her eyes dark with a desire she neither wanted, nor would allow herself to indulge in. He slipped away determined that tomorrow he would not miss his chance and the warrior would meet his blade.

The group set up their tents as darkness fell. It had been a difficult day evidenced by the distance between the tents mirroring their need to have distance between each other. Zevran held his cramped position easily, watching the Qunari take guard duty and finally the warrior moved to his tent. Adrenalin moved through his body, heightening his senses his heart pounding almost painfully. Alistair had set up his tent the farthest away making it almost too easy for the assassin who stalked him. Zevran waited a little longer before he stealthily skirted the camp perimeter, listening to the tell-tale snores alerting him that the warrior slept. Slipping into the tent he crawled cautiously forward unsheathing his dagger; hesitating only when Alistair gave a soft moan; his face frowning, his hands clutching the blanket covering him as his dreams dipped into nightmares. Alistair shifted restlessly, the blanket slipping from his chest revealing rippling muscles dusted with a light scattering of golden hair and a scar down the right side of his ribs.

Zevran inched forward, forced himself to press the blade to the tender skin at the warriors throat, feeling himself tremble as though this was his first job. He was disgusted at himself, but as Alistair slowly licked his lips in his sleep and gave a soft moan Zevran felt a rush of need so swift it was like a kick to the gut. He sheathed his blade and slowly ghosted his lips over the other mans. The resulting appreciative moan from Alistair was almost more than he could take and he pressed his lips hard against the warriors, his tongue begging entrance. Zevran sank into the heat of the warrior's mouth, felt an ache within him that suddenly only Alistair could ease. His mind whirled in confusion and he pulled back; trembling at his own actions, frozen momentarily as his eyes locked with the warrior, who was staring at him in astonishment. He saw Alistair open his mouth to speak; his hands clutching the blanket tight to him, those tantalising lips and solid chest he would give anything to press against. Zevran scrambled backwards; his usually fluid, graceful movements seeming clumsy and loud as he felt panic bloom within him. He backed away, painfully taken breaths attempting to choke him as he slipped out of the tent. He would never know how he managed to get out of the camp without being seen. He dissolved into the shadows; yet lingered long enough to see Alistair emerge from the tent, the blanket wrapped tightly around him, his eyes searching the campsite. Even from his distance Zevran could see he was trembling; but it was not fear that shook his body, it was desire and need and a man unfulfilled.

Now they faced each other; blades drawn, Alistair's eyes wide with recognition, confusion and hurt. Zevran felt his stomach curl, knowing the look of confusion and longing was mirrored in his own eyes. Gripping his blades Zevran reminded himself that Alistair was a job that had to be completed. He hesitated, wondering when exactly the warrior had become Alistair to him. He experienced a swell of regret, a wish that he had never made a bid for the job. He shuddered, the trap had been sprung and only one course of action lay open to him. He felt the surge of adrenalin; was aware that the mage Warden had fallen, his blood spreading out in a dark pool, the apostate fighting her way to him, before she too fell to the blades of his men. He saw the panic in Alistair's eyes followed by anger and grief that he fuelled into the sweeping arcs of his blade. Steel struck steel and the assassin and Warden drove hard at each other. Zevran saw his death in Alistair's eyes and was thankful for it, his eyes widening as Alistair cried out as an arrow grazed his neck. Zevran caught him as Alistair sank to his knees; his vision swimming, his limbs leaden as poison coursed through his body. Those beautiful hazel eyes staring at the assassin with such sadness; closing in pain as Zevran's blade found the weakness in his armour and drove home into flesh, blood spilling over the steel. Zevran's training having taken over from his rebellious thoughts to spare the Warden.

Zevran trembled as he watched the life ebb from Alistair; saw the pain of defeat and guilt that he had not survived to defend against the Blight. Alistair's body shuddered, Duncan's name falling from his lips as his head rolled to one side and he took his last breath. Rinna and Alistair became one in Zevran's mind and he backed away from the Warden's fallen body. "It was just business." He murmured, trying to push away the conflict within him. He was the one supposed to be bleeding the ground red and he knew in that moment he had made a terrible mistake.

It would be several months before Zevran would feel the true weight of his actions, that he had destroyed Ferelden's last hope. As the country fell to the Archdemon, Zevran found himself part of a desperate last stand that had no chance of success. He felt the burn of flames; the tearing sensation as claws dug into flesh and finally found the death he had sought. As his body slumped to the stone he held onto the hope no matter how undeserved, that somehow he would be allowed to see those beautiful hazel eyes once more.


End file.
